


Worlds Enough And Time

by Nope



Category: Angel: the Series, Smallville, The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-21
Updated: 2003-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1641914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nope/pseuds/Nope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for little Alex</p>
    </blockquote>





	Worlds Enough And Time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for little Alex

 

 

close your eyes ( _just for just for a second_ ) 

black heart beat drums reach out white hands in the black close them around the black rubber wrapped steel reach out hands and close them around the wheel white hands on the black wheel reach out your hand and drown your heartbeat in the rumble of the engine silk on you, cloth-wrapped foam under, behind, leather gloves on your hands and the rumble of the engine and the sounds of travelling, wheel hiss and bounce and you open your eyes to white. The sky is bone white. The car is smooth silver. You drive. 

You drive. Seventy on the curves. Dial pushing one-twenty on the straights. Flat land everywhere. Wide and flat and empty. Road and fields. Hedges. Dead trees. Skeleton trees scraping at the sky. Push down the accelerator. You drive. 

( _not 'just' drives everything has purpose thank you thankyoudaddy_ ) 

Fog wreath on a power plant. Smoke shadows on the chimneystacks. Power lines hanging over the horizon. Straight lines forever. Twisted trees. Heavy branches and deep roots. Black trees. Shapes in the black trees against the white sky. You drive. Lone open road. (Black) Push up the speed. Hands loose tight on the wheel. In control. Always in control of the 

( _I thought I hit you_ ) 

crows. Black mass rising across the road. Shadows on the silver bonnet. Black cloud breaking into birds, into one, two three fourfivesixseven crows. Big black v across you, above you, splitting and wheeling and turning. Shimmering ( _green_ ) (black) against the cloud curtained sun. The flock crossing him. Past. Gone. You turn to watch them go, moving on, spreading out over the land, shadows rushing, growing before them, and you turn back and there's one last crow, right in front, and 

( _thought I hit_ ) 

as you twist, fight the wheel, the window turns opaque. Storm breaking all over you. Rain and. Heat of a white scream. Multicoloured afterimages, forks and sheets. Car slipping in sudden crosswinds. You fumble switches. (let there be light) Car slipping. Everything slipping. Breaking. Drumming. Heart beat inside. No. Outside. Banging down all over the car. You thinks it's hail but it's frogs. It's raining frogs. Little green frogs. You should laugh (hoo ha ha hoo hoo) you jerk the wheel. Blood on the windscreen wipers. Ten plagues. 

( _hatehatehate bugs crawling on skin_ ) 

You shake your head. Again. Harder. Suddenly hard to move. Arms tight against you. Shirt itches. Too bright in the car and all you can see is your pale ghost reflection in the glass. And rain ripples, spreading. And out of nowhere, black hitting the glass, like a branch except its moving, twisting on the glass, twisting, hissing s curl, there's a real-live-holy-shit of a snake curving on your windscreen, and you stamp on the (breaks) brakes and pull off just as hard and stamp on the accelerator and the car should stall but it just growls and jumps at your command, fishtailing but still moving forward, pushing forward and you push and you push until there's nothing in your head but finding the road you know has to be there and there's a rush and a jerk and the car rises and. 

Silent. 

Everything goes silent. 

Free spinning wheels. It feels like flying. It feels like Zen. Like if your mind was empty (void) you would understand (everything). First there is a road. Then there is no road. Then there is. And you have no idea where you are but it's a good road, clearly marked, a slick wet path through a tunnel of trees. The car slides easily down it. 

There are lights up ahead. They're glittering and dancing like fireflies but of course, you know that's just because you're seeing them through the rain and the shaking leaves, that they have to be windows, and you slow the car down as you come around a last corner, and they are windows. There's a whole building round them. Tudor style. Wood beams grid off white walls. Smoke coils into clouds from the chimneys. A sign swings freely. You turn under it and catch it's reflection in the windscreen. It's a free house. A bar -- no, an Inn in the middle of nowhere. 

There's a parking lot right where you'd expect one. It's almost empty. You can't see spaces marked so you park next to a truck. Slip it in, parallel. The truck's orange-red. A fifty-six ford. Nothing like the one you boughtIt has Oklahoma plates. You don't think you drove that far but you can't remember how long you were driving. It feels like forever. Rain drumming overhead. You sit. Breathe. The windscreen starts to mist up. There's a crack in it. Water beads on the inside. Grows. Trembles. Splits and falls. Refracting light. You see yourself curving away. It splashes on the dash. You open the door. 

And it's maybe six steps to the entrance but you're already soaked to the skin before you're halfway there. 

You look back from the doorway but you can't see your car anymore so you go inside. It's hot. Roaring fire. People. So many people. You stand steaming in the doorway. Push a hand backwards across your skull, wiping rain from your skin. Flick droplets from your fingers to the stone floor. Looking around. Wooden beams. Wooden barrels. Wooden tables. Real old, not ye olde. Scorpion tailed lamps hanging from the ceiling. Guttering yellow light. 

And the people: a thin woman in a bowler hat and a crystal monocle; a blond man in a loose, half-buttoned white shirt, reciting poetry with one arm wrapped around his darker companion; a red haired woman who looks quickly away; a dark haired boy, really too young to be in here, laughing along with a heavily browed man, though neither speak out loud; a black haired woman with curious, emerald eyes; an orange haired man taking pictures you don't recognise but who waves at you before clicking onwards; an Indian woman of surpassing beauty, draped in turquoise and silver, serving counter and tables alike; a blonde girl, except she shifts in her seat and now she's a brunette, and now she's a guy, and now; a tiny squeaking man; a veiled woman dancing; a pale faced oriental; a large black man in a white suit, booming laughter; a cowboy playing country on the small stage, a pretty song with a mournful edge; an aristocratic blonde sipping daintily while her silver haired husband talks to a couple better suited to a fetish club than the current surroundings; and more and more, until the faces are just noise; an ever changing merge of colour, shape and sound, faces, so many faces, and everyone is here, more people than should fit even in an Inn that bends around them and just for a second you think maybe, somewhere in here, is a you that's sipping twenty, forty, sixty year old scotch and still happily married to Helen, to Desiree, to Victoria, to Amy, to Chloe, to ClAnd there are holes where the rain gets in. There are buckets catching droplets. Ripples spreading out. Inside the bucket. In the bucket. In the floor tiles. You tell yourself that's impossible and when you look again it is. 

"Drink," says the Indian woman. 

She is standing right by you, although you do not know if she approached you or you approached her. The door seems far away but the counter seems no closer. The Inn shifts about you, in an out like breathing. She is holding out a glass. A brandy bowl. 

"Drink," she says, and it's a description and an order, so you say "Thank you" and take it and sit at an offered spot at an offered table. 

Cowboy's singing a new song. "Streets littered with diamonds / every one's glistening / this whole world shines so brightly / I can't see a thing." 

You sip your drink, which you think should be scotch and is; thick and sharp and warming. 

Cowboy sings, "Pretty as a picture / seems like a golden rain / settles me with love and laughter / I can't feel a thing." 

He's good. You've heard better. In concert halls across the world. His hand on your shoulder, fingers biting into bone. His voice in your ear. 

( _open your eyes_ ) 

"The sky's gonna open," Cowboy sings, "People gonna pray and crawl / it's gonna rain down fire / it's gonna burn us all." 

( _hey_ ) 

"The sky's gonna open / people gonna pray--" 

( _kid_ ) 

There's a painting behind you. Saint Sebastian. 

( _help me_ ) 

He looks at you as you look at him. Glowing on stained glass. 

( _help me, please_ ) 

And the window shatters in and you throw your hands up against the wave of black (green) dirt, hot rocks burning around you except it's not a cloud, it's a car and you jerk back and C 

"--feel," sings Cowboy, holds the final note. 

nock the glass off the table. It shatters. Cowboy puts his hand on the strings to silence them and is off the stage almost before people start applauding. There's no painting. There's glass on the floor. Scotch follows the cracks between flagstones, amber finger sliding towards you feet. You pull them back. Cowboy is giving the brush off to a brown haired woman in an expensive suit with a scarf around her neck. You pick up a sliver of glass, hiss as it slices open you fingertips. The woman says "permanent position", says "senior partners"; Cowboy pushes past her. He's glancing your way. You look down at the glass. 

A hand on yours stops you reaching again. 

"We have people to take care of that," says the Indian woman. She hands you a second glass and, when you automatically reach for your wallet, shakes her head and says, "It's already been paid for." 

She steps aside. Cowboy moves into the gap. He's holding a glass too. His is thin and tall and half full (empty) of clear liquid, which could be water, which isn't. His hair looks black and his eyes greeBut it's just. You can see his hair is brown when he stands in the light; his eyes are blue, or maybe grey. His accent's west-coast veneer on a southern twang and for all he looks like a cowboy he walks like a businessman. White collar cowboy. And you think maybe for all their scuffing those boots cost more than the truck and you're still looking when he holds out his left hand and says "Lindsey McDonald." 

( _had a farm_ ) 

"Lex Luthor," you say and "you're very good." 

"It's not about good or bad," says Cowboy, "it's about who wields the most power." 

"I." And you don't know what you were going to say, so you say "was talking about the singing" instead. 

Cowboy just gives a small smile and sips at his drink. The storm howls against the windows. People are talking all around. You've small talked at business parties for years and all you can think to say is, "bad storm." 

"Acts of gods," says Cowboy. Shoulder twitch of a shrug. "There've been worse. There will be worse. The trick is not to play the game." 

There's something in his voice, a musing, thoughtful underscore, like he isn't really talking to you at all and you mean to ask him something but there's lightning and thunder so loud it has to be right on you, and people, so many people, all looking round as one. 

"Bad storm," you repeat. You sound stupid even to yourself. This isn't you. 

Cowboy just nods. "Something got broken. This is fallout." 

"I was--" You shake your head. Water droplets darken his flannel shirt. "I was driving." 

"And everything turned to shit and you didn't have a clue how it got that bad that fast?" 

You push your fingers against your skull. "What's happening here?" 

"You're the smart one," says Cowboy. "You tell me. What do you want--?" 

"The truth 

( _is I'd do anything to protect_ ) 

," you say. And: "What do you want?" 

"To fuck you," says Cowboy. 

"...Oh." 

He reaches for his drink with his left hand, frowns and picks it up with his right, sips; lets you watch him. His face shows nothing. There's a thin scarred line around one wrist and a silver bracelet around the other. It looks like silver hearts sliced in two. Lightning flashes outside. 

"Okay," you say. 

He nods and walks away. You watch him cross the room, stepping in and out of the pools of light. And here, in darkness, he's taller, younger, darker, his eyes bright and his smile wide. Here in light he's brushed past by a blonde with too many faces. Here in shadow, he's older, dark curls down to his shoulder, suited and strong striding. Here in light he's watched by a pale man with high hair as he climbs the stairs. Ascending into darkness. He doesn't look back. You gulp whiskey; swallow the burning thread, rise and follow. 

The stairs are longer than they have any right to be, turning and turning and turning, and you take them two at a time, and three, until you're running, red queen running, stairs and stairs and stairs and a sudden landing and a hand on you, turning you, Cowboy small-smile laughing and shoving you breathless gasping backwards against a door. He smells faintly of engine oil, of too long in a truck and of something else you can't quite put a name to and you feel stubble brush against your cheek and then he leans in and kisses you, slow and hard and salty sweet, a flick of tongue against your lips and when he pulls back you follow, one arm around his neck, sucking at his lower lip, pushing up against him and reaching your free hand for the door handle. 

It's cold against your fingers. He's hot in every sense of the word and flicking open the buttons of your shirt with an ease that maybe should be a little less cool and little creepier. The door gives and you stagger backwards through the gap and shut it and push him up against it. Cowboy's hand round you, against your lower back, pulling your weight onto him. Makes an amused sound as you push up his t-shirt. Brushes his fingers against your skull, ducks his head to suck at your neck. Humming against you. Electric buzz, spreading from points of contact. Palms against gym-built muscle. Loose your shirt and he loses his and. Skin to skin. Heat flush. You can feel his heartbeat with yours. Sharing breath. And then he moves his hips. just. so. 

And your back's against the door and you don't know how you got turned round and you don't really care because you're hard and so is he and you're pressed into each other, rubbing together through way to many layers of cloth. Stupid moan in your throat you can't stop. His laugh against your shoulder, sharp brush of teeth against a nipple. Fingers on your hips. Working at your belt. Rasp of a zipper. 

He grins when you thrust towards his fingers. Wide, toothy grin. You growl and push him back into the light coming in through the window. Storm light and the Cowboy looking at you with amused curiosity and you're breathing hard and he isn't, but his hair's mussed and you know you did that, know he's going to have fingerprints visible on him come morning. You shiver in the sudden cold of the room, sweat cooling on skin, and he pulls you into his heat. Humming again. His hands moving all over. Right flat against your skull, pulling you in. Left pushing your pants down. You shake till they're around you ankles and he steps back and you stumble forward out of them. 

Back in shadows, your fingers twisting in the curls of his hair and you make an annoyed noise and push him back again. He turns with it, pulling you around, an amused, pleased "mmm" turning into soft humming as he nuzzles against your collar. You pull his belt open, slide your hand inside his jeans. Soft steel and heat against your fingers. Slick. Catch of breath. He pulls your hand up, sucks his taste off your fingers. Lightning flashes in your head, outside the window. There's a baby's cot rocking, empty in the corner. Cowboy doesn't look, sings softly, under his breath, "freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose," until you kiss the words away and he laughs against your mouth and pushes you down on the bed. 

You sit up as he follows, straddling you, but he pushes you back down. Leans over you. Presses himself length to length. Good weight. There's a faint raised scar low on his neck, old bite, whiter than the surrounding skin, and when you swipe your tongue across it, he makes this guttural, back of the throat rumble growl and twists his head to capture your mouth. Swallows your moans when he closes his hand around you, tight, pumping. 

And he's saying something against you but you can't hear it over the rain and your blood pounding in your ears and the bright burn of his fingers moving on you and in you. Stretching you. Stretching moments. Feels like breaking. Like everything's breaking. Jerking like film with the frames removed. Staccato. Wordless sounds. Biting off gasps. Truncated vowels. Hands on you. Cowboy pushing your legs up. Eyes bright in the storm light. Lips on you. Sucking. Wild tongue. You're burning. Drowning in heat. You can't breathe. You have to breathe. You turn your head. See the window. See the storm. 

See, in the lightning flash, ( _daddydearest_ ) Lionel pressing his hand to the glass. 

He could be crying. It could be rain. You don't want to see it, so you don't. But Cowboy says, "Open your eyes, Lex." 

( _Lex_ ) ( _Lex_ ) 

And it's not a command but you have to obey. And he's right there. Poised above you. Glorious pressure. Heat and. The flick of tongue against his lips. Sweat glistening. 

He says: "--want to fuck you." 

"Are you real?" you ask, and he laughs and says "Are you?" and twists his hips and pushes and 

( _hadafarm-E-I-E-I_ ) 

"oh" 

And. You've never believed in God as much as you do Right Now. Not fate, but destiny. The perfect potential waiting there to be seized. And then he pulls back and there's no thought in your head at all because he's driving back in, all the way in, full weight in the thrust and you're pushing back, wrapping your legs around him, pulling him deep, right into the heart of you. Colours exploding in your eyes. His grin and. In. Out. In. Out. Ruthless fucking timing. Hitting you just right. White heat on each thrust. Whimpering on the backstroke. Low noise in the back of your throat. Pushing. Almost. Almost. Deep slide. Full and searing and. Almost. Pushing up the slope. Sheets tearing under you. Skin tearing. Red. Hot. So close. Panting. Back arched. Lifting off the bed with each stroke. His hand torture on you. Right up against it. On the edge. Cowboy hissing encouragement. Corkscrew hips. Pounding. And. So. 

Right. 

Over. 

Clenching, spraying yourself, him, wet heat. A twisted, gnarled name on your lips. Cowboy shoving through it, shoving and shoving and. Shoving. and you're rising with it, wrapped around him, and he's growing in you, and it hurts so good, sudden wet heat within and he closes his teeth in your shoulder, burying his moans in muscle. 

You collapse together. Hands moving slowly on him. Cooling bodies. He slides out. Aching emptiness. Nothing in his face, looking down at you. Pulls up his jeans. Never took them off. Fucked you in his boots. Cowboy. You shiver at the loss of his heat, and he pulls the sheet up over you, tucks it under your chin. Small smile. You drift. Slow, warm and easy. 

Cowboy's whistling softly. Moves around the room. You turn to watch him. The storm's settled outside. Night grows darker. Room grows darker. Cowboy picks his clothes. Dresses with an economy of motion. Picks your clothes off the floor, drops them on the chair. Picks up your wallet when it falls out. Goes through it. You can barely see him. The bed is soft. You think about moving but you're all wrapped up. Snug as a bug in a rug. Tight wound in the sheets and maybe you couldn't move even if you wanted to, but you don't try to find out either way. 

The room is soft. Glass spreading. Everything fading. Soft walls. Cowboy standing in the padded room with your wallet and his boots. Takes a business card out of your wallet, turns it to the light. Says something, thoughtful tone, but he's fading and you catch only the word "heart" and he's gone, swallowed in the darkness. 

Everything fading out, collapsing down, small and warm and tight and cosy and you 

 


End file.
